But Arizona resented the interference, and rounded on him promptly.
“Say, you passon feller, I ain’t heerd tell as it’s the ways o’ your country to butt in an’ boost folk on to a scrap. It’s gener’ly sed you’re mostly ready to do the scrappin’.”
“Which means?” Lew grinned in his large way.
“Wal, it mostly means—let’s hear from you fust hand.”
“It’s not much use hearing from me on the subject of hogs. They aren’t great on ’em in my country. Besides, you seem quite at home with ’em.”
Arizona sprang to his feet, and, walking over to the hulking form of the parson’s son, held his hand out.
“Shake,” he said, with a grin that drew his parchment-like skin into fierce wrinkles; “we live in the same shack.”
Lew laughed with the rest, and when it died down observed—
“Look here, Arizona, when you get talking ‘hog’ you stand alone. The whole Northwest bows to you on that subject. Now go and sit down like a peaceable citizen, and remember that a man who is such a master in the craft of hog-raising, who has lived with ’em, bred ’em, fed on ’em, and whose mental vision is bounded by ’em, has no right to down inoffensive, untutored souls like ourselves. It isn’t generous.”
Arizona stood. He looked at the man; then he glanced at each face around him and noted the smiles. One hand went up to his long, black hair and he scratched his head, while his wild eyes settled themselves on Tresler’s broadly grinning features. Suddenly he walked back to his seat, took up his dish of hash and continued his supper, making a final remark as he ate.